February 21, 2009

I just came across a New Scientist article, again, a bit late. It's a couple of years old now. But a couple of years ago I was head first in both nappies and parenting journalism and didn't hear of it so: in short - mother's laughing makes breast milk better; it even improves skin conditions like eczema in babies. Read the full story here

This might explain why Ben looked like a cat's scratch post in his infancy. I had post-natal depression and there really wasn't much free flowing laughter round our house. Had I known - HAD I KNOWN - I'd have made the effort. Because, apparently, even putting on your fave DVD comedy helps - it doesn't have to be joy-of-life laughter, the sheer giggly bliss of being a mum.

HAD I KNOWN I'm sure that I could have coaxed my mild hysteria, with the help of some gin and visualisation into full blown hysterics. Then not only would I have looked to the none-the-wiser as if I was having a hoot in my new role as mother to two under two, I would also have had a baby boy who didn't look part radish. And on a serious note, a boy who wasn't in such discomfort.

So my advice is this: if you see a mum with leaky patches who is either glum or toting a rash-riddled bub, give her a quick tickle under the arms. She'll thank you for it later when you explain everything from your prison cell.

February 19, 2009

“The lives of future generations are being threatened because women trying for a baby are neglecting their health at the crucial moment of conception, doctors warn today.”

That’s what the health editor of the UK’s The Independent, following a new study, reports on here.

I think the lives of future generations are probably more threatened by globalisation, global warming and glutamates than by a badly-timed gin-sling (or two). But to 'protect the next generation', here are the guidelines:

Follow a healthy, balanced diet with plenty of fruit and veg, starchy foods, and dairy. Avoid processed food and keep to two cups of coffee a day.

Cut out alcohol, smoking and drugs, which can affect the chances of conception and harm the foetus.

Wait three months after coming off the Pill before trying to conceive, to reduce miscarriage risk.

Take a multivitamin with 400 micrograms of folic acid every day for a month before trying to conceive.

Consider a general health check, especially if there is a family history of medical conditions such as diabetes, cystic fibrosis or epilepsy.

Take regular, moderate exercise.

Check vaccinations are up to date

So, don't have fun or sex (for three months). I know it's designed to embrace all demographics, from the la-di-das who think by their very stock they're bound to have excellent babies to the Waynetta Slobs who insist twenny Marlies a day keep them ticking over; but the thing is this: if one is trying to get up the duff, then surely one would be fairly sensible about it anyway, if one were to be a sensible person. And if one wasn’t a sensible person, then one wouldn’t give a monkey’s what guidelines a health department threw at one, surely.

But if you are considering conception in its less spontaneous (read 'oops!') incarnation then heed the warnings. Professor Hazel Inskip - not a playground game, but an epidemiologist at the Medical Research Council Centre in the University of Southampton - told The Independent: "The foetus is particularly vulnerable in the first few weeks. Early influences affect the risk of miscarriage, may contribute to the obesity epidemic, have an impact on IQ and all sorts of subtle long-term effects.”

How the Neanderthal evolved without a fistful of brain-boosting supplements, I’ll never know.

February 16, 2009

* I wrote this some years ago, but being new at the school gates recently took me right back to the first shaky moments of mother and toddler groups. I hope it helps.

When the tide of pink ebbed, I was left with two things: a beautiful daughter and a shipwreck of an existence. Friends’ attention drifted and partner went to work, forcing me to embrace harsh daylight domesticity alone (not to mention the moody blues and a tumbleweed brain). With nobody to buffer the shock, I needed help. I needed to get me some mum-friends…

As I enter my first toddler group, I don’t know what to expect. But a cheer would be nice – you know, some recognition for my right of passage. Apart from a string of raucous child catastrophes (Micky elbows Milly off trike and Toby Pees In Sandpit Shock), there’s an uncanny silence. I feel like an expectant father in a delivery suite: left out and unsure where to look.

“Hello, first time?” It’s the organiser; she pounces from nowhere with bug-eyes and a rack of big teeth. With registers to tick and HobNobs to assort, she pushes a coffee into my hand and steers me towards a large group in deep – apparently exclusive - discussion. Now to make, um, friends.

Mums & Tots groups aren’t like cocktail parties; you can’t very well ‘slip’ into conversation carrying a hot beverage and a small child whose wriggling triggers sweat in unsightly places. So cool in the face of adversity – I never had a chance. Nevertheless, I stand at the edge, grinning inanely, fruitlessly, wishing I were somewhere – anywhere – else. Even back home, alone with baby playing peek-a-boo, and gently going bonkers.

It then dawns on me: I am falling into the pattern behaviour of two decades past… No, courting it by hanging onto the skirts of the popular crowd. So as they fall about over an in-joke I sidle away and approach instead a dishevelled woman who’s boy is bucketing sand over her head. I stop short of revealing Toby’s earlier antics and instead say: “Looks like you’re having fun!” She isn’t.

I talk to Sandra the whole morning, grateful for the chance of joined-up speaking. Hell, we even laugh. And every week we find ourselves in the pit, excavating nuggets of comedy from our lives as random kids inter our extremities. Sometimes joined by other mums who need to share and be shovelled.

For easing those first months and years, when life is turned on its head and you feel like you have two of your own, it’s invaluable. That one morning a week to drop the hunky-dory and pare the down times with rallied understanding. And celebrate the milestones, too (really, she slept through the night?).

One size doesn’t fit all; but don’t shy away if you feel you’re the new girl at school again. There will always be the unfeasibly immaculate mums, those who intimidate and those who grate, but that’s because childbirth provides a common ground, not a common interest. Which, on the brighter side, means the personality that makes you so cynical and selective is still in there, alive and kicking. So settle for mums with whom you click, not clique.

As it happens, a brat belonging to one of the aforementioned bites Matilda one day, drawing blood. “Hey, whatever, they’re kids, right?” I shrug. Trendy Wendy heaves a sigh – one that says both ‘thank you for not suing’ and ‘I’ve just about had it’ – and she beaches alongside us in the sandpit a while. Apparently the terrible twos are hell. I invited her over tomorrow. She’s bringing the lemons, I’m providing gin and together we’ll make a tonic.